And yay! I've passed a thousand readers today. But apart from my faithful Koba, not a single review on this latest chapter. I hope you like this one better then.

Dawn and its various shades of grey. Guinevere had left early to paint herself blue, and lead her charge with the Woads. Picts! With the Picts. One last piece of bread was his breakfast, along with a slice of cheese and a few nuts. He needed the energy, but it was never good to feast before the battle. Arthur contemplated the room he had occupied at the fort, wondering if he would ever see it again. No matter what happened, his actions meant more today than they had for the past fifteen years. It was a pity that he would have to face the only battlefield he chose without his brothers. But not alone.

As if to remind him of it, Frances suddenly barged in. Leather plates on her back, cheeks flushed, her chest was heaving.

— "Sorry, Arthur. I was afraid you'd be gone already."

The former commander's green eyes widened slightly.

— "No. I was about to put on my own armour."

— "Right. No one quite told me when to show up so…"

Suddenly, her attire clicked in his mind.

— "You do not intend to fight, do you?"

The young woman scoffed, her expression incredulous.

— "What! You thought I came to the planning strategies just for the fun of it?"

Addressing her a stern look, the commander was spooked to see her unfazed. She was getting better at resisting his commanding presence, and it was not great news.

— "No, I thought Merlin wanted to talk to you, to get your support."

— "I'm just a girl, Arthur. I'm not an army. My support doesn't mean squat if I don't fight."

Arthur fell back on his chair, feeling suddenly, very tired. How gullible he had been, to think that she would stay behind in the forest!

— "This is why you should leave."

— "Of course. I'll go and knit a new scarf."

Arthur's green eyes bulged out, caught off guard by the irony of her statement. Perhaps it would be better to say goodbye.

— "Well, then…"

— "Don't be dumb, Arthur. I can fight, and I will. If you don't want me to be at your side, I'll be with the Picts. Now, I'd feel safer beside you."

Arthur stood up, dismissing her good-natured insults to observe her. She had, after all, saved one of her knights twice, and could be fearsome when her wrath unleashed. And even if he towered over her, her eyes held rightful fury.

— "I am the Keeper of Time. I will fight for you, and your knights to the death, to ensure your future is as it should be."

Arthur's answer came out like an automatic response, sadness and relief etched onto his features.

— "My knights are free. They will fight no more"

— "Yeah … whatever"

Before he could retort, Tristan passed the threshold of his private rooms without knocking. He, too, was clad in his battle armour, a far cry from the shaggy leather he usually took on missions. This one meant business, and made him every inch the formidable warrior that he was. In his hand, a helmet he knew well.

— "So will I," came his smooth voice.

Arthur gaped at him as Frances' uttered a sad laugh. The scout turned his attention to the young lady, his eyebrow lifted in silent interrogation.

— "Never mind," she said curtly. "Good timing,"

Good timing indeed, especially as she asserted her conviction that his brothers in arms would, indeed, second him in the fight. How much more did she know? There were no more words exchanged between scout and lady, but a lengthy conversation seemed to occur. At last, Frances' eyes dropped in defeat, and Tristan handed her the helmet. Arthur watched the situation unfold, stunned by their silent communication. No wonder the woman had a knack for putting him off balance if she associated with the likes of Tristan. The presence of his scout by his side was as much a relief as it was fearsome.

Behind him, he could see Frances shake her head from left to right. At last, Tristan lost his patience and ground out.

— "Do as I say, woman, or I will kill you myself."

Instead of cowering, Frances' golden-brown eyes were set ablaze by rightful anger.

— "Your kind words warm me up," she retorted.

Arthur's eyes widened slightly. No one spoke to Tristan so snarkily; most feared him, or loathed him enough to stay out of his way. He wondered how the already irked scout would respond to her sarcastic challenge.

— "Would you rather I tie you up in a tree?"

A not so subtle threat. Switching strategy, Frances eyed the helmet cautiously before asking the much-dreaded question.

— "Whose helmet was it?"

Tristan's eyebrow rose behind his mane of shaggy hair.

— "You can't help it, eh? Asking questions?"

— "Aren't you grumpy this fair morning…"

The former commander almost choked on his mouthful of cheese. If his conscience asked him to intervene, his rational mind told him to stay out of it. Obviously, Frances had won some kind of Tristan immunity, but God knew what could happen if he jumped in the middle of this particular fight. Surely the Saxons would be more merciful than this bunch of thickheads. He understood, now, Lancelot's words about Tristan taking a shine to Frances. No one talked down to the scout, and survived.

A heavy sigh escaped Tristan's lips, and he left the helmet in Frances' hands without a word before storming off, leaving a bewildered commander behind. Eventually, Frances approached him, pointing to the headpiece.

— "Do you know whose helmet it was?"

Arthur nodded, recognizing the design at once.

— "His little cousin, he died not one year after they arrived. The size should be right"

— "Well. I have a little head, even if it's full."

The young woman turned the piece of armour around, her eyes lost in the contemplation with an unreadable look. Arthur couldn't help but pry a little, still quite unsure about the scene he had just witnessed.

— "Tristan is very protective of you."

This time, her haze eyes met his, the sadness unveiled for him to see.

— "Unfortunately, yes"

The commander set his hand upon her leather-clad shoulder, hoping to convey some reassurance.

— "Tristan is my best fighter."

— "Sometimes, it isn't enough."

And her eyes glazed over, probably musing about a friend lost in battle.

— "We are in the hands of God from now on."

Frances couldn't help but quote Gimli's remark as they stood upon the Hornburg's wall, awaiting their ten thousand Uruks.

— "Right. I hope he has good friends."

A mouthful of cheese and wine later, Frances made her way to the stables. They were all here, the knights of the round table, cloaks on their backs, not a shred of armour on their shoulders. Free at last! For the first time, she wondered if they would return to Arthur, if her dream would come to pass. Right now, it seemed that everything was crumbling down. Perhaps if what her fear speaking.

Galahad was the first to spot her, and his face instantly drew a frown.

— "Frances. Why do you wear an armour? Are you expecting us to encounter resistance on the road? Should we clad ourselves?"

All eyes settled on her, Lancelot acknowledging her with a nod. He knew the answer to that, and unbeknownst to her, so did Dagonet. But it was Gawain, sweet, well-tempered Gawain that nailed it.

— "You intend to fight"

There was not disappointment nor awe in his voice, resignation only. All of the knights, he was the one who tended to accept things as they were.

— "I come to say goodbye."

Heavy silence descended in the stables, and for a moment, she thought Galahad was about to explode. But he kept his temper in check, impressing her with his newfound wisdom, and asked her instead if she would ride with them for a little while before… Frances winced; she couldn't take the disappointment in his eyes, and chose to lighten the mood.

— "Nay, pup. My ride sports a ridiculous Roman armour, and would be very pissed at me if I didn't show up."

Bors laughed at her description of Arthur, although his voice was a little high pitched. The discussion lasted a moment, the knights saying goodbye, each in their own way. Gawain gave her a one-armed hug, and a pat on the back, while Galahad crushed the very life out of her. Bors only grabbed her forearm, and she was glad for it because she didn't want to be broken to pieces before the battle started. Lancelot she greeted from afar, and glared at the smirk that flourished in his lips as his eyes twinkled.

— "There'll be hell to pay, knight," she yelled at him as he disappeared from the stables, laughing all the way.

Gawain followed Lancelot, sending her a nod, unfazed by the heated exchange between them.

— "Wait, guys, where is Tristan?" came Galahad's voice.

Bors's shout reached them from outside.

— "Out there, his horse's gone. He'll join us on the way, come."

Eventually, Dagonet's hand landed on her shoulder, and he gave her the helmet she had conspicuously hidden in Tristan's stall.

— "Be safe, lady knight. And if you can, look after him."

His words left her speechless, and when Dagonet crushed her against his side with a one arm hug, tears fell from her eyes.

— "Have a long and blessed life, Dagonet. You deserve it," she responded; eyes set on the ground.

The knight lifted her chin with his finger, wiping a tear off her cheek.

— "I might very well have it, thanks to you. Farewell"

And then, the knight mounted his horse, and Frances was left behind in an empty stable, a long dead warrior's helmet clutched in her fingers.

There were all here, the knights of the round table, minus the scout. But nothing exceptional in that. Any moment now, he'd join them on the road to freedom. Upon the hill, gazing at his retreating brothers, Arthur sat proudly atop his warhorse. Clad in shining armour, Frances standing by his side, he looked every bit the proud commander of the wall. The dragon banner flew in the wind, the sky darkened by heavy smoke that smelt like hell. Yet a ray of sunlight shone upon Arthur, and the knights contemplated their friend, eyes filled with awe. At last, Bors galloped in his direction, only stopping to yell a tremendous 'Rus !' that echoed along the valley. For a while, everything was silent, Arthur the epitome of a vengeful angel as the wagons creaked behind them, making their way out of Britain.

And then, Arthur lifted his banner, yelling back at them with the force of a leader, the presence of a commander, the strength of a King. A loud, echoing battle cry in tribute to their sacrifices, the Sarmatian 'Rus'. And a feminine voice joined him as well, Frances unseating her sword, her blade catching the light as her fiery hair shone atop her head. Her cry was powerful, much more than they expected, underlying Arthur's voice. Their answer brought tears to Galahad' eyes, and the young knight shook his head.

— "It is so sad, that she would choose to ride to her death when she had brought us joy"

Gawain's calm voice grounded him as his blue eyes contemplated the incredible sight of Arthur and Frances joined together atop the hill.

— "Have faith, Galahad. The woman knows what she is doing. How many times have we done that ourselves, uh?"

Lancelot, his eyes misted over, could only contemplate the ground as he left behind his closest friend. And then something incredible happened. Another horse sprang from the trees, joining Arthur atop the hill. Gawain blinked twice, recognizing the Hawk on the scout's fingers.

— "Tristan", he breathed.

— "What is he doing up there?"

The scout lifted his arm in the air, releasing the bird who left him with a piercing cry. It plummeted down the hill, passing through their ranks in a flurry of feathers before soaring to the sky. A heartfelt goodbye that left them speechless. Tristan's goodbye. Another one of them going to his death. It was too much to bear, and Lancelot couldn't help but feel that he had forsaken his calling to run away like a squirrel. Turning to the others, he taunted them playfully.

— "Doesn't it irk you that a hundred pounds girl and our scout get to fight beside Arthur and we don't?'

Uphill, said girl was eyeing Tristan atop his horse, greeting him with a nod. She'd heard his words to Lady Hawk, freeing her, and her heart clenched painfully. She hoped with all her might that the bird would come back to its master after the battle. Helmet in hand – she'd wait the latest possible moment to wear it – she turned around to the Saxon army.

— "Well, I've faced worst odds", she mumbled sarcastically.

Arthur stared down at her, surprised etched on his features.

— "You have?"

The tone of his voice indicated that he, for one, had not. It probably was the first and last time that Frances would have an advantage over him; a hardly fair one, for middle earth war of the ring had created batshit crazy situations. And the elves had been a nice addition to their army. More efficient than Woads… Seeing that she had caught Arthur's attention, Frances elaborated.

— "Yeah. Twice. The first was worse, though. 300 against 10,000, but on the other hand, we had a good fortress to protect us. Until the wall blew up… We should be all right"

— "Well, that is … reassuring"

Frances nodded, not quite sure what to make of her comparison. Was she more, or less terrified than at Helm's deep? How she wished for Aragorn and Legolas to be by her side, like that fated day. Hell, even Gimli would have reassured her. And she wouldn't say no to elven archers as well, and Haldir. Poor Haldir, who'd died on the wall. Frances shuddered, chasing from her mind the thought of the dead marchwarden. Unconsciously, the young woman reached for the tender spot on her thigh; the wound reminding her how lucky she'd been in the battle of the Hornburg. As for now, the wound she'd acquired in the exact same spot ached a little, but nothing too serious. She'd removed the stitches the evening before, some had bled a little, and bandaged it tightly. It would have to do. Once the adrenalin pumped through her veins, it would be but a sore souvenir.

A hand appeared before her eyes. She seized it tightly and she was lifted swiftly behind Tristan's horse. That man was definitely stronger that he looked.

— "Come, little fairy. Arthur will speak with the leader. We'll cover him from the wall"

The young woman nodded in assent as the rider spurred his horse to a gallop. Then, as Arthur passed the heavy gates, they both climbed the wall. Tristan knocked an arrow, and she followed his suit, eyes strained on the negotiations happening a hundred feet away. The leader was on foot, clearly at disadvantage for Arthur had not dismounted. It didn't seem to daunt him; his proud poise falsely nonchalant as he exchanged with their friend. Long blond hair, long beard, shiny eyes and wide, very wide shoulders. But even with his built, Frances doubted she'd be able to hit the man at this distance; her aim wasn't THAT good. It didn't matter; the scout certainly could. Her gaze wandered amongst the Saxon ranks, studying their armor – a disparate bunch of cuirass and mails –and weapons. Then her eye caught something in the great tree that faced the battlefield, a movement of the branches far too important to be caused by an animal.

— "I think there's someone in the tree", she told Tristan.

The scout merely grunted, arrow knocked, eyes stuck on the Saxon leader. It took a while before Arthur decided to retreat, and Frances stowed her bow once he passed the heavy doors. At the very moment he appeared below them, Tristan shifted his stance, pulling the string, and released his arrow. It climbed gracefully in the air, arching down into the tree. A muffled cry, then a body fell at its roots. Tristan didn't even turn around to check the result of his shot, gesturing to Frances to follow him downstairs. His steed awaited patiently, and the scout stowed his bow with swift gestures.

— "It's the traitor from the lake, the Briton", he eventually said.

— "OK"

At once, his hands were at her waist, lifting her up on the saddle in a swift push. Then he climbed in front of her, so graceful that it reminded her of the elf's weightless moves.

— "You got the right, I take the left", he ordered.

— "Aye aye, sir", she responded.

The retreated again on top of the hill; then the waiting game begun. In the mist of the trees stood an army of blue painted warriors, their scent characteristic, and Frances wondered if it really went away from their skin. Her thoughts ran into her frantic mind; her body so tense that she had to refrain from fidgeting. Anything could happen now. Would she hold her own on the battlefield ? What if she messed up, and died ? What if she was maimed ? What if her sword was swatted away, and nicked Tristan's legs in front of her ? She'd never fought on horseback, never led a charge. Frances was proficient enough on foot, especially with her hand to hand training, but as a knight ? At last, she reached for Tristan's, landing a hand on his shoulder to ground her thoughts. The scout was his impassive self, his golden eyes observing, waiting for the others to make the first move, ready to sprang forward and lay waste on the battlefield. A hardened warrior, unlike her. Saxon drums started to pound their rhythm, stating their intentions. They were ready. The first wave of their infantry begun their advance to the wall, spears crashing against their shields in an enthralling dance. This was it. The battle of Badon Hill had started.

The sound of horse's hooves pounding the ground had Frances turning around in panic. Had the Saxons managed to circle them? A breathless sigh escaped her when she realised that the knights of the round table had decided to join the fight. Then a full smile blossomed on her lips. Gawain, Galahad, Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet formed a line beside their commander, beside them. All knights in shining armor, all of them wearing a banner, a grin on their lips, the joy of being reunited in a battle of their choosing. And Arthur's eyes filled with pride as he turned his horse around to greet them.

The commander's voice rang loud and clear upon the hill, talking about freedom and the land they'd protected for so many years. It was a heartfelt moment, shared amongst brothers, and Frances marveled that she could witness it. She, who was just a stranger to their tight group, but not unwelcome. Then they uttered a terrifying battle cry, and planted their banners firmly into the ground. After sharing one last look of comradery, the whole group descended to lower ground. Behind them, the flags floated in the wind, oblivious to the massacre that was about to happen. The testimony that Sarmatian knights had chosen Brittany as their home.

Frances' eyes roamed over the line of knights, detailing their helmets and armors. The horses were fully clad as well, protected from snout to rear end by mail and plates. They were a magnificent and fearsome sight! Smiling at Bors and Dagonet, who were next in line, she caught a glimpse of Lancelot's form beside Arthur. The dark knight sent her a devilish smile, probably still proud that he'd tricked her yesterday evening, and gotten away with it. Would he ever stop gushing about it? Frances responded by a glare who would have frozen hell over.

— "What is this look about?", came a familiar smooth voice.

Hell. Nothing passed Tristan. How could he possibly know she'd glared with her sitting behind him? Frances sighed, scooting closer to his ear to hold a private conversation.

— "That infuriating man pecked me by surprise."

The scout tensed in front of her, but his only response was as devoid of emotion as ever.

— "Did you like it?"

— "Ugh, no! I'm not for sale! And this is Lancelot we're talking about !"

Was it her imagination, or her heartfelt response had him slacken on the saddle? Turning slightly, he caught her eye with a very serious look of his own.

— "And you didn't kill him?"

A smile spread on her face at Tristan's response; he trusted her to do justice on her behalf, to defend herself. And this vision, for a fifth century man supposed to be retrograde and macho, warmed her heart. No matter how patronizing he could seem, Tristan had no qualms about genders when it came to warriors. He respected skills, and disliked chatterboxes, be them men or women. Period. Frances grinned at the perspective of kicking Lancelot's arse.

— "Not yet. But when I do, he won't see it coming"

— "Why not?"

His tone was curious, his voice nearly lost as hundreds of feet stomped on the ground below them. That casual conversation over her thief-kisser was the most surrealistic moment of her life.

— "Why not what?"

— "Why not on the spot"

Once more, he had nailed a severe inconsistency. Frances bristled in the saddle, adjusting her thighs around his to get more leeway.

— "I was too stunned … and I am loathe to hurt him, especially before battle"

— "I will kill him myself," came his growl.

Frances barked a laugh.

— "We can do it together."

— "Aye, little fairy. We will"

Lancelot would be no match for the two of them, even with two swords. Below them, the Saxon lines wracked their spears upon their shields, chanting a rhythmic word that resembled German so badly that it left a sour taste in her mouth. Yeah, she'd seen too many Second World War movies, that's for sure.

Frances tightened her hold on Tristan as the first batch of Saxon infantry searched for their enemies. The door clanged behind them, wood creaking in a macabre omen, the view blocked by heavy smoke. The battlefield was much clearer from the edge of the forest, the wind whipping in their backs. Strung like a coil, Frances waited for the Picts's volleys of arrows to land before they sprang into action. The heavy thud of her heart hammering in her chest caused her blood to roar in her ears. Her stress was reaching a peak, and Tristan's horse could feel her unease as he shifted below them. At once, the knight put a restraining hand on its coat, and then, his fingers trailed to her knee.

— "Be still," he commanded.

— "Be safe," she answered.

Her words had an unexpected effect as Tristan twisted in the saddle, his heavily armoured arm passing over her head and landing behind her shoulder. His head was turned forward, shielding his gaze from her surprised one, yet his hold tightened. It was an awkward hug, but a welcome one nonetheless. She wound her arms around his waist, marvelling at the plates that protected his body. Pressed against him, lost in his embrace, she felt courage building up in her mind. Eventually, his warm lips came to rest upon her brow, a sweet and caring contact that lingered none too long. Warmth exploded in her chest, and an intense sense of safety in which she basked for a few seconds. Then his rough finger lifted her chin in a playful move, the same he pulled on Lady Hawk when he sent her flying.

— "There's no reason to let Lancelot claim the last kiss, eh?"

Frances's lips quirked in a half smile, awed by his tenderness. Who knew Tristan could be so caring? Frozen to the spot, her mind blocked the marching of the army who would, probably, be the death of them all. She didn't hear the whistles of arrows in the wind, neither the cries of the dying, nor the inconsistent yells. In this very moment, there was nothing more than his arm around her shoulders, and the storm raging in his brownish eyes. His masculine scent surrounded her, hanging heavily between them, tendrils weaving a web around her face as his wild hair flew about them. Then it happened. Tristan tilted his head down, brushing his lips to hers. It was but a featherlike touch, one that said so much that it left her heart trembling and her mind numb. His beard slightly scratched her chin, the tingling welcome upon her skin. The knight eyed her warily as he pulled back, his golden gaze darkened with desire, knowing that he had just lost the merciless fight between heart and mind.

She was watching him, her breath short, her expression so utterly lost that shame overtook him for pushing against her boundaries with all the might of his overwhelming presence. But shame wasn't enough to quell his desire to claim her, and he descended once more upon her mouth, sealing his lips to hers in a searing kiss. A heavy embrace, loaded with regrets, demanding; he couldn't help it. Instead of flinching away, France met him head on, his passion mirrored in the way her body came to meet his. One of her hands landed on his cheek, soft fingers caressing his bearded skin, her touch sweeter than honey. The other one squeezed his nape in a desperate hold, pulling him to her in their awkward position. His tongue caressed her lips, seeking to part them, and when he tasted the warmth of her inviting mouth, Tristan nearly lost the tight control her prided himself to have. It was too short, way too short, for a man who's yearned for love for so long. But enough to wash away his regrets.

— "Now I can die," he breathed, trapping her in the depth of his intense gaze.

— "Please don't," came her pleading response, her eyes speaking the rest in her stead.

The next move took all of his will power. Straightening, Tristan released Frances's lips with one last peck and adjusted his seat in the saddle, reclaiming his previous spot as his arm passed over her head once more.

— "Helmet, Frances," came his stern voice.

Smiling at the gruff command – despite the shaking moment they'd just shared, he had not forgotten – the young woman fished the piece of armor from a saddle strap and adjusted it below her chin. And just like that, they were ready for war. But on her lips lingered his taste.

As for the kiss … it wasn't Frances, right? : p